


blessed are the peacekeepers

by syrenhug



Series: canticle of benedictions [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Adoption, Andrastianism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Chant of Light, Character of Faith, Child Loss, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fighting, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Paganism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, The Calling Verse, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 02:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12717828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrenhug/pseuds/syrenhug
Summary: Slavery is not so easily forgotten. It is a shirt left out to dry, too horrendous to be wringed with his bare hands but too delicate to be left wet, dripping all over himself. He doesn’t know what is worse: living trauma or living with it.Maybe it’s both.(Fenris learns to be soft with someone)





	blessed are the peacekeepers

**Author's Note:**

> This is important to me because its set in the universe of the book i'm writing. The Calling ™ - Please don’t replicate or play in my sandbox without permission.
> 
> Some background;  
> Geography of Cannes Venciti –  
> Lyraa – Ten countries (socialist monarchy)  
> Vega – Six countries (capitalist aristocracy)
> 
> This set in the Islands, which are (obviously) islands, but more importantly territories that exist outside the countries above that are trying to gain their statehood. Islanders are pretty prideful and passionate about the subject. They don't want to be under Lyraa or Vega's rule or pay taxes to them. 
> 
> \- Blessed: someone who is considered to be a physical manifestation of a deity.  
> \- Cursed: someone who houses a spirit or demon inside them since birth.  
> \- Carrier: someone who can physically have kids. like, biologically. this isn't a cis person having a kid, friends. but if that gets you off then okay.
> 
> Okay, so I combined the world's because i wanted to still maintain some familiar concepts while it still feeling fresh. I also vagued some scenes which ehhh. it gets tiring to write the same scenerios we all know. In this world most Andrastians believe that Andraste is a goddess and her relationship to the Maker varies from island to island. 
> 
> playlist  
> last dance - dua lipa  
> warmer - bea miller  
> translation - sevyn streeter  
> droptop in the rain - ty dolla sign feat tory lanez 
> 
> warning: a baby is lost in an ambigious sort of miscarriage which is mentioned at the end and in the next chapter, which is anders' pov there will be ref to it. i'll try not to get to in depth though. i promise it's a good ending

 

 _Blessed are they who stand before_  
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

 

* * *

 

_2078\. Kirkwall, Highridge_

1

The heat burns, but it’s a familiar wound against his skin. Fenris looks up and gives himself a few seconds to stare at the blueness of the sky. How unsettling to know no matter where you were, the sky would be the same.  He stomps to the corner of the street, pointedly making eye contact with a staring merchant. The merchant looks away, tugging at the selves of their tunic. Ah, he still has it.

The tavern, The Hanged Man, does not quiet when he enters, but he can feel the tenseness of everyone as they pretend not to examine his skin: its color, its scarring, the lyrium burning within it. Fenris is used to making everyone look by no action of his own, but his own being. It is more maddening then the consistent sky. The place smells of old _something_ \- dirt, sweat, ale - and the bartender tips their head in greeting, eyes red rimmed from crying, most likely. He nods back politely, then turns his focus to the back corner, spotting two figures conversing, seemingly waiting for someone. There.

He moves to the table and sits, trying to remember that appearances could only be so deceiving. People underestimated too much. It was better to be underwhelmed than otherwise.

“Hello.” Fenris says. And the woman seems to barely stop herself from grinning. The dwarf shakes his head. “Are you Hawke?”

“Interesting. I don’t think my name was on the flyer. Varric, was my name on the flyer?”

The dwarf takes a deep breath. “No, but you're not exactly a random woman on the street. You’ve got a bit of a reputation as a mercenary.”

“Ah,” She folds her hands together on the table. “Forgot that. Kill enough people and it slips your mind.”

“He -” Fenris continues when Varric nods at his wordless question. “- is correct. I haven’t been on this island long, but I’ve heard enough whispers while here. You’re famous in Kirkwall.” _And not in a good way_ , he thinks.

She preens. Her eyes are as dark as her hair, a stark contrast to her pale skin. She looks like the vampires they painted in storybooks, beautiful and bright. But here; not from outside the Islands, a far away land he couldn’t even fathom.“It’s always nice to meet someone who can appreciate my outstanding accomplishments.”

“Tell me something.” He thinks to ask, before the thoughts escape him. Just as he had from everything he’d ever known. Hawke tips her cup to convey her attention. “Why the name? The Birds?”

He watches her think on it. Either an answer or the reasoning, he can’t tell.

Finally, with her lips pursed, “Freedom isn’t a luxury everyone can afford. I want the Birds to mean something, to be that freedom.”

“And your name is Hawke so it works.” Varric adds, the corners of his eyes crinkling like paper. Hawke smirks.

“And my name is Hawke so it works.”

Fenris laughs. It’s a rarity. But it fits here, in this darkly lit tavern with two people who’ve probably seen just as many things they didn’t want to talk about as he had. “I’d like to work for you.”

A hand extends. He takes it, and they shake. Hawke voice is loud enough to remind him of nothing from home. “Welcome.”

* * *

 

2

Merrill is wide-eyed and naive. She follows Hawke around like a puppy, nipping at the woman’s heels wherever they go. It isn’t so surprising. Even at her beginning, searching for riches and way to make a name for herself and her family, Hawke is a powerful person. She’s naturally magnetic, always ready to give a piece of herself to someone before even knowing if they’re worthy of a bite.

There home base is some abandoned warehouse Isabela had seduced some smuggler into letting them have for a one time fee. Hawke bounces on the balls of her feet, addressing them all from the front of the room, back to the door because she knew that Fenris couldn’t be comfortable in that position. They’d moved some chairs from the other rooms. It modeled a classroom, to his own personal amusement.

“Here’s the plot: Varric’s brother is an asshole -”

Varric winces from his place beside Hawke but doesn’t seem to disagree.

“So we, the Birds, need to earn 50 gold in three months. Any ideas?”

“Oooh, I have one!” Merrill’s hand waves in the air. Hawke points a finger. Calling upon her like some post required school teacher. “We should do odd jobs for the city. Some of the elves in the Alienage need help with a few things. Like childcare.”

Fenris can feel his nose scrunch. “I’m not babysitting.”

“And no one will ask you to,” Carver mutters. Stroking his sword. Fenris refrains from making a snide comment about overcompensation. The twins are so young; one storm away from twenty.

Suddenly, Aveline slams in, all steel boots and red hair tied up loosely and freckles sticking out on her flushed skin. “I can not believe the nerve of that man.”

“Like, men in general or a specific man?” Isabela has her feet propped up, examining her nails with laser focus. Aveline ignores her.

“Guard Captain completely dismissed my worries, even with sufficient evidence.”

Hawke snaps her fingers. “We can help with that.”

Varric stops his writing on the desk. “We can?”

“Yes, Varric, we can. It’ll be good to see how we all fight together.”

So they go, all spread out in the mountains of Sundermount and itching for fight. In Fenris’ humble opinion, it’s a disaster. At two separate points Aveline and Fenris bump into each other. Once, Carver steps on Merrill’s bare toes with his boots. In the end, Isabela laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Well,” Hawke rubs her forehead with her long fingers. “At least we know what we need to work on.”

* * *

 

3

“So, Fenris,” Isabela starts, gliding across the roads as they head to whatever dark, musty cave they’re destined to clear out and murder everyone with barely any elbow room next.

“If this another guess at my undergarments then, please, spare us all the embarrassment.” Despite his words, he is half smiling. Isabela brings out the amusement in him. As juvenile as it can be to talk her at times, he is grateful for her silliness.

The rogue tips her head back to laugh. She is beautiful. Just like every member of the Birds. No one can say they lack good looks. Even Varric has his own charms. “Not this time. Though, does anyone want to hanker that our broody warrior wears no smalls at all?”

Varric hums from behind them. “Now, you all know I’m not a betting man -”

Everyone turns around to stare. Aveline goes so far as to make a deep, strangled noise.

“Why, Varric, I had no idea you were such a pathological liar. A liar in general, yes. But pathological? Wow. That's almost more attractive than your chest hair.” Isabela purrs, laughing when Aveline groans in disgust.

“I’m hurt by that very baseless accusation.” Varric says, patting his hairy chest. “I am not a liar, merely a storyteller -”

Carver coughs _liar_ into his fist. Fenris tries very hard not to snort.

“Anyway, I would bet that it’s possible that Fenris is so broody that he could possibly impregnate someone with his broody stares.”

He rolls his eyes. “This again. I am not broody. Be quiet, Isabela.”

Isabela says, “I am very pointedly not saying anything.” and winks at him obnoxiously.

* * *

 

4

Slavery is not so easily forgotten. It is a shirt left out to dry, too horrendous to be wringed with his bare hands but too delicate to be left wet, dripping all over himself. He doesn’t know what is worse: living trauma or living with it.

Maybe it’s both.

(Maybe it’s wondering if his mother screamed. Maybe it’s wondering if he screamed, before. Maybe it’s never questioning because every possibility, every curiosity is another thing to pick at, to let bleed open again and never scab over. He is never healing, never. And is that not the worse part of it all? At least some people’s wounds close.)

* * *

 

5

“We need a map.” Hawke announces out of the blue. Everyone goes still in realization. Varric squints, then snaps his fingers.

“The Grey Warden. In Darktown. I meant to mention it but we’ve been so busy with quests lately.”

Isabela’s face twists, nose scrunching up. “Please never say the word quest again. We’re not that important.”

Hawke flicks her wrist and tsks, all flair. “Well, maybe you aren’t, but I am.”

Darktown is, well, dark. And foul. The clinic is filled with coughing beings - humans and elves alike, the smell of sick spilling over in a way that made Fenris feel dizzy for a long moment. Apparently he was prone to nausea from others. Another thing he had to learn about himself.

When he spots the mage healer, a crescent moon scar on his right cheek, he feels a rush of pity and disgust. He felt bad for Tranquil, as they held no will for anything, were empty vessels to be guided to tip whichever way their master willed, but Cursed were just as able to make decisions as any. But they had been deemed unfit, doomed to possessing a demon in their bodies. Fenris had always wondered why the Goddess would allow such things for Her children.

“You’re Cursed?” Fenris questions. The healer doesn’t flinch, but his hands do. Fingers brushing over the cot as a person breathes heavily on top of it. It’s unsurprising with how polluted the air is here that some people would become ill over it. He’s seen more than enough people coughing into a handkerchief on the streets of Kirkwall.

“Yes,” He confirms. “Born and raised.”

It’s a poor joke and no one knows what to say in response. Hawke, licking her red, torn lips takes a deep breath. “We’re looking for a map to the Deep Roads.”

“You can have it.”

Hawke brightens. "Really? What do you want for it?"

"Nothing." The healer motions to another patient with one finger. He dodges behind the curtain, persumably to find the map, his voice muffled. "You can have it. I'm not a Warden any longer so it's useless to me." 

"But." Hawke is just as lost as most of them are. In their world, things like this came with a favor. You didn't just get something and not have to do anything for it. 

The healer comes back. His hair is tousled slightly. "Here you go. It was nice to meet you, have fun." 

"Wait!" Isabela speaks up after he hands it over with barely any change of expression. "Why don't you join us?" 

" _Isabela_." Hawke scolds. But it's more likely because she didn't get to ask first. 

"Me? Join you? A ragtag group of misfits who look like they might still need parental supervision to visit the Blooming Rose?"

"Hey." Varric drawls. "I'm close to my forties, thank you very much." 

"Look, we could use a healer and you seem pretty capable." 

The healer frowns in deep thought. They all wait as he examines Hawke's face. Finally, "I'm not giving up my clinic. And I'm not getting involved with any templar stuff. If I see you hurt an innocent mage you'll wish you had a healer to heal you after I'm done." 

Hawke tips her head up. "Deal." 

"Okay. Alright. I'm Anders. Nice to meet you." The healer - Anders - waves a hand. Fenris has already made peace with the reality of mages being in their company but a Cursed? It's another big thing he'll have to get used to. 

 

* * *

 

6

Young mages on the verge of possession are not on the list of things Fenris likes to deal with first thing in the morning but if he has to be there to insure all these idiots’ survival, then he would bear it. And seeing as everyone else (besides the Hawke’s plus Varric) was either working or asleep, he really had no choice.

“So I’m very confused.”

“That’s new.” Bethany cuts, then snorts when Carver shoves his finger into her stomach. “Stop.”

“That’s what you get. Respect you elders.”

“We’re the same age, you idiot.”

“I’m a minute older.”

Thankfully, Hawke bounces up towards their circle in the corner of the room.

“Yikes, uh, looks like we’re going in the fade.” Hawke grimaces, scuffing her shoes against the floor. Varric takes one look at her, blinks, and leaves. Fenris is tempted to join him. But temptation leads nowhere good. Most of the time.

“Let’s get this over with.” He commands. All bravado. But if Hawke notices she says nothing. And they head into the fade.

* * *

6.5

Fuck the fade.

* * *

 

7

Anders was carrying. It was apparent by the glow in his skin, his constantly rosy cheeks and rounding belly. He wore the same outfits but they seemed to be stretching out. Fenris thinks to warn him.

“I know you’re an abomination, but I didn’t think you were a complete idiot.”

“Hello to you too, Fenris.” He greets, not looking up from his patient. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s not safe. You must be aware of that. And does Hawke know?”

Anders murmurs a few words to the tiny figure on the cot, hands on their own pregnant stomach as they lift up to slide off the cot. Fenris is not without manners or a sense of decency to bearer’s so he extends his hands and they smile, wobbling off. When he turns back from seeing them off Anders is watching him, golden eyes turned molten by the clinic’s lights. Fenris hadn't realized they were the same height until now.

Finally, “Yes and yes. But this might be my only shot at this. Most Cursed can’t have kids.”

“Don’t you think that’s for a good reason?” Fenris questions before he can think it over. It’s cruel, inappropriate. But he means it. Which only serves to remind him why doesn’t talk much. He’s too honest, never having learned subtlety or tact.

Anders takes a deep breath. Starts to clean up. Wiping surfaces with rags, disenfecting the air. He does it with the air of someone who has performed the same tasks his whole life. The clinic helper’s leave after brushing down their stations. “I think what happens is meant to. Though, sometimes it’s not that simple. But think what you want, Fenris.”

He feels like a child, suddenly, being gently chastised for making an insenstitive remark. It makes him irritated. Gruff. “I only wanted to warn you. This is a dangerous world to bring a child into.”

Anders stills. The clinic is as quiet as the night that it is outside. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m not a sixteen year old boy. I’m a grown man. I know the risks. Good night.”

He wants to say, _I didn’t meant it like that_. He wants to say, _you can’t talk to me that way and not expect the same treatment in return_. He wants to say, _why do you never ask for anything in return?_

Instead, “Goodnight.”

* * *

 

8

It takes a few months to realize that he is envious of Hawke. Of the family she has. Carver is a blunt sword, Hawke a sharp dagger. And Bethany, a simple staff, tempers them both.

“You are lucky. To have them.” He tells her one day when there is nothing to do but be idle outside of her home.

She peers out from under the brim of her sunhat. A ragged, ugly thing that practically does nothing to hide her from the light. They tease her about it. Call her an Iotan, the farmers from Vega who were born to the harvesting. To seeding something in the earth and caring for it. Like she does for all of them.

“Aye, I am. And you are lucky to have us.” Hawke brushes her hair back from her face. “We are your family too, Fenris. Do not make yourself the lone wolf your name would suggest you have to be.”

He wants to cry, suddenly. It’s another new luxury - being allowed to express sadness. And for all that he laments his freedom, he can never truly be until he allows that for himself. But it is not so easy to belong to someone, then belong so wholly to yourself. “I wish - I wish -”

She smiles at him. A sweet thing. “We all do. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

 _I love you_ , he almost says, but he doesn’t want to hear her say it back, knows she would because she has a well of care in her, no, she is the well. And he doesn’t want to be another bucket, shoveling inside her. There are too many people who count on her. He wants to be someone to count on, instead.

So, he says, “Please change your hat.” And let’s her laugh wash over him like a wave.

* * *

 

9

Danarius comes. Because of course he does. And the coward doesn’t even have the nerve to show his face first, using Hadriana and slavers as his messanger.

“Die, slavers.” Hawke yells and throws a knife straight in one’s face. And then it starts. Isabela kick flipping into combat, bangles jingling around her wrist. Aveline guards her like she always does, shield raised high. For awhile it is so loud Fenris can barely stand it, but when it goes quiet he misses it. That is the way of most things.

“Fuck.” Anders says, fanning his face after it’s all over. He hates slavers, finds them no better than random garbage one would find floating on the streets but it’s foolish to pretend that they aren’t a mighty force. Their job requires for them to be experienced in fighting. “What do we do now?”

Everyone looks at Fenris, various degrees of concern written like one of Varric’s tales on their faces and he finally finds the breath he had lost.

“Hadriana. We have to go after her. She’ll be in some abadoned slaver den right now laughing behind her staff.”

Hawke’s jaw tightens, planning. “That’s too much for us to handle alone. We need reinforcements.”

“A mercenary group Bull’s Charger’s has stopped by Lowtown. We could ask them.” Varric suggests. The king of good ideas.

They skulk to the local restaurant Sailing Exchange without further conversation, even Isabela is uncharacteristically silent. A shame - Fenris could use an inappropriate joke or two. He spots the Charger’s immediately - loud and unbothered in the outdoor chairs. The Qunari makes eye contact and lets it burn.

“Hey,” Hawke struts over, grins. “You want to help us kill some slavers?”

* * *

The Chargers are even more rowdy than the Birds and that’s really saying something. They move quick, gathering their supplies and trading their casks of ale for weapons. Fenris can feel his body tensing, sword becoming heavy in his grip.

The Iron Bull is hulking, easily overshadowing anybody nearby. He takes one look at Fenris as they head towards the slavers den and says, “You only gotta do this once. Once and it’s over.”

“I know.” Because he does. There is no going back from here.

Iron Bull nods. “Meravas.”

_So shall it be._

* * *

The Birds fight like demons together: making up for each other’s weaknesses and playing up their strengths. And this time is no different.

It goes like this: he kills Hadriana, watches her bleed across the floor and knows no absolution. Then he grabs the note from her hands and they are rushing to the Hanged Man, finding another fight.

“Fenris, this is your right.” Hawke points her blade to Danarius’s body huddled on the floor where the Chargers have him held down. He is staring at Fenris, mouth curled upwards. And this - this is familiar.

“You have a sister, Fenris. Did you know?” The man cackles. “Of course you don’t. You have no memories. You belong nowhere with no one. Except with me, perhaps.”

His heart, already folded into his chest like a lover’s note, crumples. But his sword does not falter at Danarius’s throat. He stares into unafraid eyes and feels nothing.

“Tell me her name.”

Danarius huffs. “Varania. She led me here. That is the truth, my wolf. Blood means nothing. Only power, hunger. Remember that.”

“Kill him already.” One of the Charger’s mumbles. “He talks too much.”

Fenris agrees. Slits Danarius’s throat to the thought. Everyone moves all at once.

“That man looked like he hadn’t showered in two weeks, I thought Alto Vistan’s were supposed to be more refined then that.” Isabela comments, brushing her curly hair back from her damp face. They were all sweating. Everyone in the tavern has cleared out besides the bartender, affectionately called Crier, who is perched on top of a stool behind the bar, eyes closed.

“Fenris.” He turns and sees Anders. “If you need anything let me know.” Anders must know he has no words to give because he leaves with only a lingering glance.

Aveline comes up to shake his shoulders, her rough way of showing affection. Fenris is thankful for her care. He, like all warriors, know what it costs. “Let’s go get a drink, yes?”

* * *

10

Anders comes out from behind the curtain with a flick of his hand. Aveline is the first one to laugh.

“Yes, feel free to admire me.”

Varric puts his fingers in his mouth and blows. The whistle is so loud Bethany jumps then snorts at herself. “Nice figure, blondie.”

“Thank you, thank you. Please leave a tip on your way out. My delicious rump deserves the support.”

Carver nose flairs, mouth in a straight line. The picture of brotherly disgust. It’s the same he looks when Hawke makes a reference to sexual occasions. As much as Carver might deny it, he sees Anders as a brother he never had. “How do I unsee this?”

“Who would want to unsee this glorious image of a beautiful man in the late stages of pregnancy absolutely demolishing the negative ideas of what that could look like?”

Isabela, Fenris thought dryly, always one to use every available descriptive word till none were left. He glances over, catching Hawke’s eye, and they both try not to grin. Merrill, for once, is speechless.

Anders purses his lips. Asks, in a mock affronted voice, “Is there something the matter, Merrill?”

“No, no. Not at all.” Her moss-green eyes scream for help. “But, um, are we sure about the ruffles? What about a nice solid colored tunic with a golden trim, perhaps?”

“I second that emotion.” Bethany says quickly. “Anders, I love you, but you are an insult to mages everywhere with your fashion sense. First, the coat. Now this?”

Anders straightens. All hints of humor drain from him; his face a bathtub. “What did you say about my coat?”

“It’s absolutely atrocious.”

A gasp. Varric makes a move to leave the room, only stopped by Bethany gripping his arm in distress. “I can't believe you would say such a hurtful thing to me.”

“Oh, Anders I was only joking, please don’t cry.”

For a few seconds they watch in horror as Ander’s lips trip over each other, his eyes shiny with beginning tears, and then he is laughing. Smoother than the wine Fenris lets curl in his stomach on the hard nights - which he supposes is every night of his life. Light, easy; a child’s laugh. “I can’t believe you all fell for that. Glad to know I haven’t lost my cuteness.”

“Can’t lose something you never had.” Carver grumbles. The corner of his mouth tips up when Anders pokes him in the arm.

“Okay, there are like ten more outfits so get comfortable.”

Everyone whines dramatically. But they stay. Because of course.

* * *

 

11

“Sometimes I wonder if the sky while swallow us whole one day. Do you ever think that?” Merrill states, watching as the clouds gather together in the sky. Every Islander knows the signs of rain, of a storm. The smell of the air changes, all salt and driftwood. He finds himself watching the goose bumps on Ander’s arms. Eventually, he turns his face up and Anders is smiling in Hawke’s direction. Ah.

Varric looks up quickly from the table. Everyone is bunched together on a bench outside Sailing Exchange. The Chargers have moved on to Ocean of Four Seasons and he misses their light company. “That’s a very Dwarven thing of you to say, Daisy.”

“But don’t you ever think about it?”

Hawke practically inhales her sandwich. Swallowing dryly in such a way that it makes an awful noise. “My darling, I try not to. That’s bad luck, I’ve heard. My father was from upper Vega and didn’t realize how superstitious our people could be. Mother educated him very quickly.”

Merrill is flushed, speaking into her palm. “That seems terribly romantic. To marry someone from one of the countries.”

Carver wrinkles his nose. “Why? I would never marry a non-Islander. They don’t know anything about our culture, our history. Even something as small as our weather is beyond them.”

“Carver -” Bethany starts softly. But he cuts her off.

“No, I’m not mom. Sure, love is blind and all that, but look where it got them. One foot under. One foot here in this rotting city. I’m not stupid. I won’t repeat her mistakes.”

“Mother is a full person without father.” Hawke blinks rapidly. Carver drops his hands from where they were posed to gather the rest of his rice.

“I know who mother is.”

He gets up, ignoring Bethany’s calls. Hawke chugs her drink. Eyes distant. Fenris catches Merrill’s comforting rub on Hawke’s back. Ahhhh.

* * *

 

12

They fight about the expedition. Loudly. He’s sure all of Highridge hears it.

“We can’t all go. Goddess knows if something happens then we need someone here to continue our name.”

Anders is visibly fretting, twisting a strand of hair around his finger as he hunches over the too tiny desk. There’s no way he’s going anywhere, already eight months along. No one has the heart to tell him but Fenris wouldn’t let him go the market unsupervised, much less on an expedition to the Deep Roads. “What, do you expect the rest of us to stay at home and knead bread?”

Hawke’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Yes.”

There are multiple groans. Hawke rolls her eyes.

“Okay, everyone hands in.” No one moves. “ _I_ _said_ e _veryone hands in_.”

That has them all moving, Merrill resting her hand solidly on Hawke’s, the rest coming gradually afterwards. Their hands wobble slightly, someone’s shaking from the strain but Aveline and Varric steady them. “We can’t all go. No hard feelings, no arguing. Are we clear?”

“Clear.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Get on with it.”

“Fenris, Merrill, Aveline.” She states, and her eyes dare anyone to try to disagree with her decision. Anders taps his nails against the desk. Fenris resists the urge to grab them to make him stop. “It’s settled. See you after the expedition.”

(They return weeks later, bruised and battered but alive. And Fenris has never been this rooted.)

* * *

 

 

13

Pregnancy has softened Anders in the best ways. His hair is thick, glossy and down his shoulders, usually twisted in a knot at the base of his neck. His body curves like an hourglass with no sand to run out. And he is happy, bright. Fenris can’t help but stare.

And if Anders smiles and looks back, that is between them.

* * *

 

14

Fenris is never quite sure what to do with himself on his off time. Usually Hawke or Aveline will have some small task to keep him busy or Varric invite him out to drink but he can’t continue to count on them to entertain them. So.

He decides.

It doesn’t take long to walk to the square. The cathederal is well-structured, but small. For the workers, those who can not attend the bigger halls. When he enters he isn’t expecting to see Anders kneeling in prayer.

“Oh,” He says. Anders turns on one knee. He’s in a worshipping robe tied loosely over the tunics he favors nowadays. “I’ll go. I don’t wish to disturb.”

A laugh; it spills like wine unto Fenris. “I didn’t think I was that horrible.”

“You’re not.”

“Then please. Sit.” Anders pats the cushion next to him. He hesitates but drags in. Sits down less softly than intended if the teetering light of the candle in front of him is any indication. For awhile, neither of them speak.

“Have you ever lead in the Chant?”

Fenris thinks. Danarius had not been religious, but to say one was not anything for Islanders was taboo. You at least said Her name to slander. “No. But I’ve seen it performed.”

The answering hum is raised. He shifts his gaze over to where Anders is stroking his stomach. His hair is loose in light waves. He smells of fresh air and the elfroot in healing potions.

“It’s tradition to pray together if there is more than one and less than four.”

“Oh.” He repeats. “I can, yes.”

This is quite possibly the most foolish he’s ever felt. But he does know some of the Chant. Enough to get him by.

“Blessed are they who stand before

The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.” Fenris begins and the words flow out of his mouth. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

He finishes 4:11, voice hushing. They blow out their candles.

“Are you afraid?” He asks because it is almost time. Anders grows more restless by the day. Prone to peeing every ten minutes and random exhaustion. Apparently all of it is normal. But it’s obvious everyone is worried. He is worried.

“Yes. But my Lady knows best.” Anders whispers. Fenris admires his faith. Wishes his was just as strong.

He says a prayer for Anders and hopes it comes into being.

* * *

 

14.5

The baby does not cry because it does not live, and they all stare at each other, at Anders, wondering, wondering if this is an extension of his sin. If this baby too, has abandoned him.

* * *

 

15

Anders isn’t drunk, but like always, his hands give him away. Trembling, as he comes into the mansion. The Birds had cleared out their schedule to help him clean out the place. There’s new furniture he’s pretty sure Hawke stole from some noble and everything is shining, ready for to him to appreciate it. Be at peace. 

”I bet your happy. You warned me. You knew.”

Fenris doesn’t know how to say, “I’m sorry that your baby died inside you.” There are no words for something like that. No beauty in it. Death is usually an ugly thing, but there are circumstances that can render it peaceful, acceptable. An _and_ instead of an _or_. But for a bundle of spirit not allowed to be made flesh, to see the world with the one who carried it - it’s sad. A concept that anybody would not want to be let thrive. And however much he and Anders may argue and disagree, they still care for each other.

That’s what family means.

He’s rough all around, Fenris is. With his memories gone he will never know if he had ever been a soft person, willing to be affectionate: a pair of open arms rather than a tied rope around wrists. And with his trauma it’s hard not to be afraid that someone will take advantage of once and assume always.

But, Anders eyes are red, swollen. And Fenris is trying. Because that is all anyone can do.

He says, “Come.” and opens his hands for the taking. He leads Anders to his room, and they lay on his bed. At first only their hands touch, then slowly they curve together, playing vines growing on a fence. He presses his nose into Ander’s hair and breathes. There are tears dripping on his pillows, sobs pressing into his chest.

“It’s not your fault.” Fenris assures. Over and over. It means nothing because it’s too true and Anders isn’t ready to be absolved. It seems no one is, really.

He doesn’t let himself sleep until Anders does, breathing even. Little gasps as he sleeps. Fenris recites Benediction in his head for so long, so many times that he dreams in the Chant. _Blessed are the peacekeepers. Blessed are the peacekeepers._

In the morning, Anders is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> New Paris - the height of culture and prestige.  
> Conover - religious extremists, cultists live here.  
> Alto vista - growing empire where slavery is legal.  
> Highridge - lots of poor people. kirkwall is here.  
> Ocean of Four Seasons - the place of romantic getaways. 
> 
> I'll catch all mistakes at some point. Thanks for reading


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